


All Twisted Up And Breaking Down

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Series: Jagged Little Pieces [2]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Community: angst_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:32:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things should have been different. They shouldn’t have turned out like this. They shouldn't be stuck in a lie. Sequel to This Thing Is Built From Broken Parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Twisted Up And Breaking Down

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "lies" square of angst_bingo and as a sequel to This Thing Is Built From Broken Parts.

The Hub is an emotional prison now. Ianto walks the space carefully, trying not to step in the bits of pain and hurt and betrayal that are scattered about. His coffee runs are quick and take only long enough to put a mug on each person’s desk before disappearing back into the archives. It’s quiet in the Hub. The only people that talk are Gwen and Tosh, and Jack when he’s giving orders. Ianto knows the girls can sense the uncomfortable atmosphere, but they have no idea what to do with it. Neither does he.

Jack looks at him with no expression on his face, giving nothing away, but his eyes are still angry. Owen watches him with a sort of sad longing, and snaps at him if he tries to make conversation. Ianto wonders if he might go mad spending his entire life hiding in the archives. It’s mad enough up here, tense enough that his brain feels scrambled just seeing the interior of the main hub. The air is thick and it’s hard to breathe through the hurt floating around.

Nothing is making any sense, or getting into anyone’s heads. There’s an obvious circle of misery with no end in sight. Ianto spends his time watching Jack watching Owen watching him, and wishes he had _some way_ to make them understand. He’s not mad at Jack anymore; he just doesn’t care. And he wants Owen back. It surprises him to know that Owen was the most stable and uplifting relationship he’s had in years. It hurts to be left in the cold.

Owen won’t look at him now. Jack doesn’t, either. They don’t respond when he places coffee at their elbow or hands them papers to sign or fill out. Jack says nothing, does nothing. Ianto can hear Owen’s erratic huffs of breath when he retrieves the papers and goes back up the stairs of the autopsy room. Jack’s is honest in his stillness and silence. Ianto can see the lie running up and down Owen’s spine in the way the medic curls into his chair.

Ianto goes out in the field with the rest of the team, but he stays in the SUV or hangs back and lets the others handle it. He’s learnt by now that apparently his field skills are not up to Jack’s standards. Sometimes he wishes he could be out there. The rush of fear adrenaline would be better than the lump of lead hurt that’s sitting in his belly.

He’s in the back of the formation when Owen gets hurt. The alien chomps a chunk of his leg and gets a good slash at his belly before Tosh shoots it in the head. Ianto doesn’t think, he just runs to Owen’s side, pressing a hand over the wound and wishing it didn’t feel like there’s more than blood sliding out from under his fingers.

Ianto bends over the medic and blinks away the tears that sting behind his eyes. “Owen, are you okay? Tell me you’re okay!”

“Get away from me.” Owen growls, and Ianto wonders if it’s possible to be physically hurt by the sound of someone’s voice. He recoils at the anger, the pain, and Jack and Tosh jump in to cover where his hands had just been and start patching him up.

Ianto walks back to the SUV and sits in his seat. He stares at the blood on his hands, drying now from red to brown. The life of the man he loves is on knife’s edge and he’s sitting in the car, unable to do anything because his entire life has gone to shit. He blinks at the pale skin that’s visible through the dried blood cracking and falling away at the creases of his skin. He’s never really put it that way before, never really fit everything together in his mind and realized _how much_ he’s in love with Owen. And now it’s too late.

He hovers at the railing of the medbay, watching as Jack and Tosh sew up Owen’s leg and put his intestines back inside where they’re supposed to be. He drums his fingers on the metal and chews his lip as his two colleagues bark commands back and forth. It’s touch and go for a little while, and Ianto can feel terror squirming in his gut, the fear that he might never get to hear Owen’s voice again. At the moment he’d even take the agonized rage from earlier. Finally, though, he’s fixed up and sedated on the table. Jack and Tosh go off to wash their hands and shower the work sweat off. Ianto watches them leave, their shoulders slumped with exhaustion but relief apparent on their faces. When they’ve gone, he runs down into the medbay and grabs at Owen’s hand. He’d never do this if the Londoner was awake. But it was a damn close call and Ianto’s going to take advantage of Owen’s sleep to settle his own nerves. He watches Owen breathe and squeezes his hand.

“You asshole,” he whispers. “You bloody fucking asshole.”

He leans his head down next to Owen’s and for a moment savours the sound of breath whooshing past his ear. Then he squeezes Owen’s hand once, stands up, and walks away. There’s nothing he can do anymore.

That night he lies in his bed and stares up at the ceiling. It’s been months, but now he misses the feeling of Owen beside him more acutely than ever. He wishes he could have Owen clinging warmly to him, a reassurance that he’s still alive. The way it had been before Jack came back. But now nothing can go back to the way it was.

Owen heals slowly, and Ianto hovers on the edges of it all, drinking in the fact that Owen is okay while simultaneously trying not to get in anyone’s way. He’s to tired and lost for confrontation. So he just watches and says nothing, does nothing.

“Why are you still watching me?” Owen asks when Ianto brings him his coffee. He’s back to work now, and no less snarky. But now he sounds miserable. “You watched me when I was hurt. It was like having a laser trained on me. I’m fine now and you’re still doing it.”

Ianto feels shaky and sad and almost angry. “I wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine. Will you stop it? It’s weird and I don’t—I don’t like it.” He hunches his shoulders over his desk again and Ianto sighs. Owen has some pretty obvious tells, and the lie hurts, but Ianto complies. The next day Owen doesn’t look at him at all, and after that he stops watching.

The problem with Torchwood is that no one ever talks about things. Problems sit there and simmer until they explode because everyone is too wrapped up in their own problems or because no one feels comfortable talking with anyone else. Ianto is very aware that he is part of this problem. He is also aware that there is nothing he can do about it. So he lets everything simmer. Of course, that will always lead to the inevitable breakdown.

The tension in the Hub is as high as it’s ever been since Jack got back. Owen’s not talking to him at all now, and neither is Jack. Ianto once again feels invisible, tossed aside and ignored. He doesn’t even go out in the field anymore because, as Jack informed him coldly one morning, “we don’t need you out there.” Everything is being taken away, and Ianto is barely clinging to what he’s got left.

Ianto comes in late now. There’s no point in coming in early anymore, unless he wants to sit through a few awkwardly long hours of Jack ignoring him and Tosh trying to think of how to tactfully ask him if everything’s all right. He’s been demoted entirely back to coffee-making and filing. It’s almost a relief, because it gives him a much more solid excuse to hide in the archives.

Except now that means they don’t even notice him anymore. It’s like he’s disappeared from the team completely. Instead of calling him over the comms or getting up and finding him when they want coffee, they make it themselves or go to Starbucks. It’s disheartening and depressing, except that now Owen is surreptitiously watching him out of the corner of his eye—it’s like before, only more cautious, more reserved and furtive. When he’s in the main Hub, Ianto can feel the gaze boring into his back, and when he looks, the doctor blinks rapidly and looks away, rounding his shoulders as if Ianto hadn’t seen him, and that’s weird. Weird and Ianto really doesn’t want to get his hopes up because piling more pain and rejection on top of all this would just be a bad idea and would probably break something inside of him that he could never fix.

Cardiff is fucking cold at night, and Ianto wonders why he didn’t think of that before he left the Hub tonight. He was the last one out, and didn’t bother to say goodbye to Jack, even though the light in his office was on. He’d meant to go to his car and drive home, but instead he just walked straight out of the Hub and kept going. It’s dark and freezing and he has no idea where he is and his hands are shaking from the cold. He’s not even wearing a proper coat, and when a car drives by, its wind whips up his suit jacket it and cold air rushes around his body. Goosebumps make him feel stiff all over, like his skin’s been stretched too far. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, and his fingers are so numb he can barely move them to dial.

“What do you _want_?” The voice on the other end is sleepy and annoyed, and Ianto almost hangs up.

“Will you come get me?” He knows he sounds pathetic, but looking about him at his own shivering ill-clothed body and the patchy weeds he’s standing in at the side of the road, it’s a pretty accurate description at the moment.

“Why? Can’t you catch the bus?”

“…Not exactly.”

“Where are you?” Owen asks. Ianto tells him. “Seriously? Why are you all the way out in the middle of nowhere at three in the morning?”

Ianto can’t keep the bone-deep weariness out of his voice anymore. “I guess I started walking and I just didn’t know how to stop.”

Owen’s sigh is loud and static-y in Ianto’s ear. “Stay put. I’ll come get you, just this once, okay?”

“Fine. And Owen—” The click of disconnect sounds and Ianto finishes his sentence to dead air. “Thanks.”

Ianto stands on the side of the road, alternately tensing and loosening his muscles as he tries and fails to keep from shivering. It’s dark, and the passing cars light up his surroundings and blind him before moving on to other things without looking at him. It’s a really depressing metaphor for his life, Ianto thinks.

The sight of Owen’s Honda is a relief, and just the thought of warmth inside the car is uplifting. Owen pulls off onto the shoulder and unlocks the car. Ianto gets in and they both sit in silence as Ianto thaws and Owen watches him with an unreadable expression.

“Why’d you call me?”

Ianto stares at his still-shivering hands. “I needed a ride.”

“You could’ve called Tosh, or Gwen, or even Jack.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

Owen pulls back onto the empty road and Ianto stares ahead of him as the blackness swallows up the beams of the headlights. The silence between them is heavy and awkward, and Ianto misses the companionable silences of before. He sighs, and Owen’s hand reaches out like he’s going to touch him, or turn on the radio, or something, but then he curls his fingers into a fist and grips the steering wheel again.

“It isn’t working, you know.” Ianto says into the quiet.

“What isn’t?”

“Ignoring me. Ignoring this. Pretending.”

Owen’s jaw clenches, but Ianto can see his shoulders twitching. “It’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t, Owen.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“You left me all of a sudden. You gave me your back and you didn’t even want to.” They slow at a light and stop. Owen’s drawn face is lit in red and white. “You lied to me.”

The right turn signal ticks rhythmically in the silence. Owen watches the light change from red to green to yellow and back again three times before answering. He closes his eyes as he opens his mouth to speak, and his voice is heavy when he does. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to want.”

“Want what I want,” Ianto grasps at the desperation, the need he remembers. The old feeling of Owen’s lips on his collarbone ghosts through his mind. “Want us again. Want me.”

Owen shakes his head, expression twisted. “I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me. I know you do. I could feel your lie the moment you said it. I don’t want Jack, I haven’t since he left. He hasn’t wanted me since then, either. I want you. I want you to come back to me.” Ianto grasps the doctor’s wrist. “Please, Owen.”

A car behind them honks its horn and Owen finally pulls out into the intersection, shaking off Ianto’s hand as he turns the steering wheel. Ianto watches Owen blink rapidly, hands clenching the wheel.

They’re silent until Owen pulls up next to Ianto’s flat. He cuts the engine and sighs. “I don’t know how to do this anymore.”

“It’s just like before. That’s all it has to be.”

“It can’t be. Jack’s back.”

“Jack doesn’t _care_. He doesn’t care about me anymore. He doesn’t care what happens.”

“But I do.” Owen won’t look at him. “I don’t want you to get hurt by me.”

“You asshole, that’s already happened. You lied and said you didn’t want me anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” Owen says feebly, his head still down. Ianto wishes he could say he doesn’t believe him. But he knows Owen really is sorry, and he knows neither of them knows how to fix it.

“When you kissed me,” Ianto starts. “It was right after those aliens took me and Tosh and you thought I could’ve died. We both needed that. We both needed us.” Owen’s watching him out of the corner of his eye, his fingers twitching, his breath erratic. “This is the best thing either of us has had in years, and you know it. It was good, Owen. It could still be good. I think I’m supposed to be with you, not him.”

“Please go,” Owen says quietly. “I need you to go now.”

Ianto breathes slowly through his nose and nods, unlatching his seatbelt. Then he leans over the console and cups Owen’s jaw, kissing him hard. Owen makes a helpless noise and buries his hands in Ianto’s hair, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. Ianto feels Owen shudder when he cups the back of his head.

“ _God_ ,” Owen’s voice breaks when they pull apart. Ianto pulls him back to lean their foreheads together.

“Owen, please.” He whispers, hoping to get through.

Owen shakes his head, and Ianto savours the feeling of his breath on his face. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

“So you’re going to keep living a lie?”

“I have to.” Owen sounds like he’s on the verge of tears, but his face is stoic. Ianto kisses him again, slowly, lingering, wanting to commit it to memory. But Owen tastes of salt, not himself, and Ianto pulls away disappointed.

“I can’t pretend like you.”

Owen shrugs, but his lips are quivering. “Try.”

Ianto opens the door but doesn’t get out. “You think that you’ll hurt me if we stay together, so you’re just going to pretend you feel nothing? You’re going to pretend those months never happened?”

“That’s about it.”

Something breaks inside of him, and Ianto feels empty and cold. He stares at Owen’s face, trying to find a crack he can work at, some hole in the mask, but as broken as Owen is, he covers himself well. Still, Ianto grasps desperately at Owen’s expression of loss.

“It’s not going to work, Owen. It can’t. You of all people can’t just stop yourself from feeling for someone.”

Owen sucks in a breath. “I can try.”

“But you can’t make it work.” Ianto’s pleading now. He can feel all this slipping away from him and if he doesn’t catch it, he’ll never be able to hold on again.

“This wouldn’t have worked either, Ianto.”

“You don’t know that. It was the best thing I’d had in years before you walked away.” Ianto wants to scream or hit something, because words aren’t meaning a thing and nothing he says will get Owen to listen. The doctor is set in his delusion. Ianto clenches his teeth and fists the fabric of his trousers, watching the red in his knuckles drain away to white. Things should have been different. They shouldn’t have turned out like this.

Owen looks down at his hands, the fingers twisted around each other, red with trapped blood. “Please just leave.”

Everything is twisted round backward and Ianto hates this. He can’t hold on to this thing that he no longer has, and he has no idea how to get it into Owen’s head that this could be good, that it was good before.

Ianto nods and gets out of the car. Out in the cold, he feels bereft and abandoned. It’s so very late, and Ianto feels so fucking _tired_. He stands on the kerb with his hands in his pockets, watching as Owen’s expression twists and works as he tries to school his face into something less vulnerable. He rolls down the passenger side window.

“I really am sorry, Ianto.”

Ianto nods dully. He takes a breath, but everything feels worn and strange. “I know.”

“I guess I’ll…tomorrow…” Owen stammers awkwardly. There’s nowhere they can go after this.

“Yeah.”

The window rolls up and Owen is inaccessible. The engine grumbles on and he turns back onto the dark street, driving away without looking back. Ianto can see the silhouette of Owen’s bowed head and slumped shoulders as the lights shine through the windows. He sees him put a hand to his mouth as he turns the corner. Owen is already breaking from the lie as well. It’s hardly reassuring.


End file.
